The campus media studio pulsed with a nervous energy, bright overhead lights casting gleaming circles across polished floors as student reporters flitted between cameras and microphones. The faint buzz of equipment hummed through the room like an undercurrent of tension, punctuated by the occasional staccato clack of heels on tile. Lottie sat poised in the center chair, fingers loosely clasped in her lap, posture relaxed but alert. Her reflection in the camera lens stared back at her, a composed mask hiding the sharp current running beneath her skin. The faint smell of electrical heat and over-brewed coffee hung in the air, underscoring the sharp anticipation coiling through the room.
"…and with us today is the top scorer of the midterms, Lottie Whitaker," the student anchor announced, his voice smooth but slightly too bright. A practiced smile stretched across his face, but his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his cue card. "Lottie, first off, congratulations. Everyone's talking about your incredible rise."
A murmur rippled through the small crew, camera lights winking to life as Lottie lifted her chin, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you," she said softly, her voice threaded with calm. Her hands folded gently, the skin cool where her fingers pressed together. "But really, it wasn't just me. There's been a lot of support along the way."
Her eyes swept across the room, subtle as a flick of breath, catching on Amy's fleeting figure at the back of the studio. Half-hidden behind a lighting rig, Amy's wide eyes glinted with a cocktail of longing and dread. Her shoulders were hunched, hands tangled in the hem of her sweater, fingers pulling the fabric tight enough to blanch the knuckles. Lottie's throat tightened imperceptibly, a flicker of sensation rising beneath her calm—sharp, fleeting, almost like pity, almost like warning.
"You've been called a rising star," the interviewer continued, his grin sharpening as he leaned slightly forward, the crisp edge of his jacket brushing the desk. "But some say no one rises alone. Care to comment?"
Lottie let the faintest exhale slip through her nose, a breath that almost tasted of amusement. "Teamwork matters," she said simply, her voice wrapping smoothly around the words, quiet but firm. "I've had teachers who pushed me, friends who challenged me… and maybe a few rivals who kept me sharp." Her gaze skimmed the room again, a flicker of steel glinting beneath her composed surface. The words hung in the air like a delicate thread, taut with meaning.
Off to the side, Evelyn leaned against the far wall, arms folded, mouth curved into a brittle smile that barely touched her eyes. Her heels tapped an uneven rhythm against the floor, the sharp click-click muted under the hum of the cameras. The fluorescent light caught the gleam of her hair, casting a thin halo over a figure wound tight as a drawn bow. Her fingers twitched against her elbow, nails faintly scraping against fabric as she watched, eyes hooded, lips pressed in a line that might have passed for a smile if one didn't look too closely.
Leo, lounging near the console at the door, lifted his phone just enough to shield the flicker of a text behind his palm. His head tilted in lazy amusement, but his gaze was razor-sharp under the shaggy fall of his hair. Heads-up. She's planning something.
Lottie felt the vibration of her own phone, tucked beneath her thigh, the faint buzz threading through her awareness like a whispered warning. She didn't look down. Not yet. Her heart quickened, a soft drumming beneath her ribs, but her shoulders remained loose, her expression serene.
"…any advice for students hoping to follow your example?" the interviewer asked, his tone dipping just slightly toward challenge, a sparkle of curiosity alight in his eyes.
"Stay curious," Lottie murmured, a wry tilt to her lips that softened the edges of her voice. "And remember, it's not just about the grades." She let the words hang for a beat longer than necessary, the faintest pulse of mischief thrumming behind them.
As the interview wrapped, the anchor thanked her profusely, his hand extending across the desk with a flash of nervous energy. Lottie rose gracefully, the cool press of his palm barely registering as she let the noise of the studio roll over her like ocean spray. She could feel the quick glances, the murmured congratulations, the flurry of social media notifications already buzzing in pockets and purses. It was a tide building just out of sight, and she stood at the center, unmoved.
Her phone buzzed again—this time a new thread. Mason:Nice work. Watch the crowd.
Outside the studio, the hallway simmered with whispers, students craning their necks to catch a glimpse as Lottie slipped through. The air felt taut, humming with a cocktail of admiration and resentment, curiosity and speculation. She felt it on her skin like static, the faint pressure of too many gazes pressing at once, slipping along the edges of her calm like blades testing for weakness.
"Look at her, acting all humble," someone hissed, the words sharp as a pinprick against Lottie's skin.
"I heard she's got some big-name backing her," another voice chimed, breathless with intrigue. A laugh—half-mocking, half-awed—threaded through the undercurrent, and Lottie's mouth curved, barely perceptible, as she tucked her phone into her pocket and let the tide of voices break harmlessly around her. But inside, her pulse danced, bright and rapid, threading thrill with the undercurrent of tension.
Behind her, Evelyn's faction was already moving—whispers darting like minnows, sour smiles curving at the edges of the crowd. Rumors would sprout like weeds before the sun went down. Lottie felt the knowledge settle in her gut, a cold, anchoring weight.
On instinct, her fingers brushed her pocket again as she made her way toward the courtyard. The cool air slapped gently at her cheeks, carrying with it the scent of cut grass, wet earth, and the faint curl of cigarette smoke from the edge of the quad. Leo fell into step beside her, hands buried deep in his jacket, a lopsided grin tilting his mouth.
"Well," he murmured, his voice low, "spotlight suits you."
"I'm not here to perform," Lottie answered quietly, though a flicker of a smile played at the corner of her lips. Her fingers tightened faintly around her bag strap, the leather pressing cool ridges into her palm.
Leo shot her a sidelong glance, eyes sharp beneath the messy flop of his hair. "Tell that to the crowd behind you."
A knot of students lingered at the studio doors, their voices a restless undercurrent, their gazes darting like moths to a flame. Lottie's gaze slipped past them, catching Amy's figure at the edge—still frozen, fingers white-knuckled on her phone, torn between approach and retreat. Amy's eyes glimmered, wide and wet, her breath fogging faintly in the cool afternoon air as she hovered on the edge of decision.
Her phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with a single line: Amy is wavering—move fast.
The breath caught in Lottie's throat, and for a moment the world narrowed: the cool bite of the wind, the faint prickle of sweat along her spine, the steady drum of her heart in her ears. She could almost feel Amy's hesitation like a vibration in the air, a fragile thread stretched thin between them.
"Leo," she murmured, her voice edged with steel, "I need you to cover the east hall."
His brows lifted slightly, the grin sharpening into something more wolfish. "Something brewing?"
Her gaze stayed pinned on Amy, who stood stiff and trembling at the courtyard's edge. "Someone's about to break."
Leo's grin flashed, sharp and fleeting, teeth glinting in the fading light. "On it." With a flick of his wrist, he melted into the flow of students, his presence slipping through the crowd like smoke.
As he slipped away, Lottie drew a slow, centering breath. The anonymous letter in her bag felt heavier now, the faint rough edge of red string still biting through the envelope. There was no mistaking its message, nor the timing. She pressed her palm against the bag for a heartbeat, the faint crinkle of paper sharp beneath her skin.
Across the quad, Evelyn leaned against a stone pillar, her arms folded, a phone pressed to her ear, lips barely moving. Even from here, Lottie could see the tight set of her jaw, the too-smooth curve of her mouth. A gust of wind tugged at the edges of Evelyn's blazer, making the fabric ripple like a storm flag, but she didn't flinch, didn't glance away. Her eyes were knives, trained across the courtyard.
The wind tugged at Lottie's hair, a fine whip against her cheek. She lifted a hand absently, tucking the strands behind her ear, eyes never leaving Evelyn's figure. Beneath her calm surface, her mind raced—calculating, mapping, bracing. The edges of the world felt sharper now, the ground beneath her feet humming with the tension of a moment poised on the brink.
As she turned back toward the hall, her phone pulsed once more, the message stark and simple.
Anonymous:There's more where that came from.
The words seared into her mind as her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. She could almost taste the storm on the horizon, the electric bite of challenge stirring the air. But beneath it, threading through every breath and movement, was the ache of anticipation, the razor-fine line between triumph and collapse.
And in the quiet fold of her heart, where no one could see, Lottie felt it—the simmering thrill of the fight, the weight of responsibility balanced carefully against the pull of ambition.
As she reached the steps, her gaze flicked one last time to Amy.
The girl's mouth moved, shaping silent words, her lips trembling, eyes wide with something that looked like desperation.
Lottie's pulse knocked once, twice, hard against her ribs.
Without breaking stride, she lifted her phone, her fingers moving in a quiet command.
Meet me. Tonight. No more running.